Stuart Kaminsky - Tarnished Icons

But something else had happened to change Iosef. He had declared one night at a party in his parents’ apartment, a party where he had been accompanied by one of the most beautiful girls Elena had ever seen, that he intended to marry Elena Timofeyeva. At first, Elena had considered it a drunken joke. But he had continued to pursue her. In the mirror each morning Elena saw a smooth-skinned, pink, and good-looking if a bit pudgy face with straight blond hair. Elena fought an endless battle to keep her weight down. She had before her the image of her aunt and her mother and was convinced that she was doomed to become a compact tank. She had, the year before, had a brief affair with a Cuban policeman while on duty with Porfiry Petrovich for an investigation in Havana. The policeman was married, and she was never quite sure whether he had been truly attracted to her or had seduced her to keep track of Rostnikov’s investigation. She had decided it was probably both.

Elena looked at the clock on the wall. It was about thirty seconds to nine. She glanced at Rostnikov, who was drawing pictures of birds in his open notebook with the word ‘colors?’ neatly printed at the bottom of the sheet.

At precisely nine the door to the office opened, and a man in a blue suit and matching striped tie stepped in. His hair was dark and cut short. His body was lean. He stood before them, hands folded in front of him. He looked at each of them. His face was rugged and clean-shaven, his most notable feature being his bushy eyebrows, which made him look just a bit like a younger, trimmer version of Leonid Brezhnev. Elena guessed his age at a little over fifty. Rostnikov looked up from his notebook, and his eyes met those of the man who had entered and now spoke.

“My name,” he said in a confident tenor, “is Igor Yakovlev. Colonel Snitkonoy has been promoted and made general. His presence was required in Saint Petersburg, where he will be head of security for the Hermitage. This is a permanent appointment. Major Gregorovich has been transferred and will be providing security for a prominent member of the congress, Citizen Zhirinovsky.”

The transfer, Elena knew, was a nightmare any sane person would dread, to be responsible for the protection of the probably mad regressive Nationalist who cried out for assassination from those he offended on a daily basis and who blamed the Jews for a long list of the ills of Russian history. The crazy Zhirinovsky was reportedly half Jewish himself.

Yakovlev looked directly at each of those around the table. Pankov clearly knew what was happening. Karpo showed no particular sign of interest. Rostnikov studied the face of the man before him. Sasha was alert and wary. Iosef had an open look of curiosity. Zelach seemed confused and looked around the table for reassurance. None came.

“I,” said Yakovlev, “am the new director of the Office of Special Investigation. I expect you to function with the efficiency you have displayed since the establishment of this office. While we give great credit for this success to Colonel Snitkonoy, I intend to function at an even higher level. I know about each of you, your strengths and weaknesses, your loyalties.”

With this he looked directly at Rostnikov.

“My background, as Inspector Rostnikov knows, was in the former KGB,” Yakovlev said. “I no longer hold any rank within State Security. I renounced such rank to accept this position when it was offered by a member of the government through the Ministry of the Interior. I see it as an opportunity. That is all you will ever hear from me regarding my background or professional life. I have no doubt that Porfiry Petrovich will give you further information about me if he so chooses or I do not order him to give no further information. I will not so order him. Questions?”

No one spoke or moved.

“You will all, including Citizen Pankov, receive a raise of ten percent effective immediately,” he said. “I expect a fifty percent greater effort from you in return. Next, these morning meetings will end. They are a waste of time you could be spending at work. We will meet infrequently as needed. Meanwhile, I am officially naming Inspector Rostnikov assistant director of this office. He will move into the office formerly occupied by Major Gregorovich. You will report to him, all of you except Pankov, who will report to me only. Chief Inspector Rostnikov will meet with me on a regular basis to report on your progress and to receive new cases that come to my desk. You will come to me directly only if I send for you. You all understand?”

A few said da while others, including Elena, nodded their heads.

“Good,” he said. “You all have work. You are all dismissed with the exception of Chief Inspector Rostnikov. Pankov has already prepared all the necessary papers for your salary increases and I have signed them. The money for these raises will come out of the office’s annual budget. The salary of the director will be reduced to cover this fiscal charge.”

Slowly, one by one, a bit dazed, they all stood up, Karpo first, followed by Sasha and Elena. Iosef looked at his father and then at Yakovlev, who hovered over Porfiry Petrovich. The new director’s hands were now folded behind his back. He continued to stand tall.

Iosef got up and a confused Zelach followed him. Pankov took up the rear and closed the door behind them. When they were gone. Yakovlev said, “Well, Washtub?”

“Well, Yak?”

Yakovlev smiled, his bushy eyebrows rising. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses, which he carefully placed over nose and ears.

“I need you,” said Yakovlev.

Rostnikov shrugged.

“I need a one-legged troublemaker whose sarcasm matches Gogol’s,” the Yak said. “I need an honest man. I need the loyalty you get from those who will now be working for you. I am not simply flattering you. I need you, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“I know,” said Rostnikov. “But you are giving me more credit than I deserve.”

“I reserve the right as your superior to maintain a small pocket of doubt on all these counts.”

“It would be foolish to do otherwise,” said Rostnikov. “And you are no fool.”

“We have been on opposite sides on more than one occasion,” said Yakovlev, moving to the end of the table and taking the seat Iosef had vacated.

Rostnikov nodded. He turned his head to face the director at eye level. The turn was awkward with his artificial leg, but it was not painful. Rostnikov knew the man before him as a ruthless member of the KGB. He had served under a general who committed suicide when the coup against Gorbachev failed. The suicide had been announced officially as a heart attack. Yakovlev had not been promoted. Nor had he been dismissed or demoted. He still had his protectors. Since the fall of the Soviet Union Yakovlev had moved into the shadows till this moment. He was smart, but more important, he was khitry, cunning. Rostnikov knew he had killed on more than one occasion at the order of the now deceased general and probably others as well. There were stories of interrogation sessions conducted by the Yak in Lubyanka, sessions that the subject did not survive.

“Everyone who was at this table, with the possible exception of Pankov and Zelach,” said the Yak, “knows that the Wolfhound is a fool. He is, however, a threat to no one, and he looks good in uniform. I expect he will be a great success in Saint Petersburg and consider himself fortunate to have gotten what he considers to be a promotion.”

“You may underestimate him,” said Rostnikov.

“You contradict me?” said Yakovlev, suddenly standing. “That is precisely what I need from you. Honesty, intelligent assessments of people and situations, and loyalty. Do I have them?”